


Dreams of Women

by Kittenfightclub



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Secrets, Toulon Era, Women's Fashion, crude language, javert just wants to be loved and wear pretty clothes, light Violence, not that one, the f word
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 16:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10283063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenfightclub/pseuds/Kittenfightclub
Summary: Follows Javert through his life, in which he tries to keep secrets, and being a successful policeman, succeeds for the most part-except for from one man-. Lots of longing, and confusion, and silk scarves (or at least a desire for them).(pairing doesn't start till at least ch.2)





	

**Author's Note:**

> That one fic that I posted a teaser for on Tumblr forever ago; I still quite like the concept. If all goes well, it will probably be finished one day (w at least 1-3 more chapters). I just need to find the time and motivation. A lot of time and motivation considering that I've been working on this chapter since at least last September.  
> The title will probably be changed; I just find it amusing that if you only read the first paragraph Javert seems awfully hetero

When Javert was younger he had entertained ideas of women; slender bodies tucked into corsets and clasped tightly between petticoats and the hands of men. Women with breasts and hips that swayed and hair that hung past their shoulders. The dresses these women wore were always beautiful and flowy and they made Javert want to cry.

Javert’s hips were somewhat slender like these women’s and he longed to wear the glittering corsets and twirl skirts just the same as they.

 

As a prison guard he had stricken these desires every time he took out the whip upon a prisoner. He imagined the whip striking his own back, striking away these shameful desires in a rush of red blood and pain, self flagellation of the mind.

He looked at the prisoners and saw men, not in the figurative sense of the word for they were no more than beasts to him, but the strong muscle upon each back made him shiver. The arms, thick with  _ more  _ muscle and sweat and dirt and hair and  _ strength. _

 

Javert sighed and shifted on his bunk and put these things out of his mind. He went to sleep and they returned in his dreams: swirling dresses and gorgeous hair and hats and lace gloves. He could  _ feel  _ the silk and it made him sigh. But, also the men- the men with crude strength- strength enough to choke the life out of a-   
  
Javert always took care in the morning to clean himself up. Despite spending the day in the dust and muck, and always ending up covered in the slime and disgusting sweat, being clean for even a moment was a luxury. He would always wash his face well, the soap stung and was coarse and grating, but at least he felt cleansed- of the grime and dirt that is. He also felt stained and claustrophobic, but no amount of scrubbing would fix that.

 

He bought his uniform in a size too small. It clung too tightly to his lanky arms and legs, but it was worth it for the press of thick cloth against his abdomen. It restricted his breathing and made his hips stick out more prominently. Javert would catch glimpses of himself desperately in the reflections on glass, and smile and think of his impending punishment for this sin.

  
-

 

Louis passed Javert’s shoulder, tagging him in for his shift before shuffling off to bed. None of the guards noticed Javert’s odd tendencies, too caught up in a routine of work and play. Or, maybe they just weren’t that odd, God knows the other guards had something more to hide than sinful desires and self-deprecating dreams. Even if the guards didn’t notice, the convicts did, they hissed at him between the bars and whispered of him betwixt each other at night.   
  
“ _ HEY passif!”  _ growled 25673, banging large fists against the cool bars and waking the convicts in the neighboring cells. “You got a man yet?” The grin on the convict’s face was predatory, but Javert did not shy away. He walked straight past the beast, heels clacking carefully on the concrete floor. He enjoyed the sound and the surety. 

As he passed by the man, a hand shot out and grabbed at his hip; Javert stopped, shocked, and 25673 laughed. It was a masculine laugh, throaty and rough and thick, and Javert found that he could not bring himself to walk away. The tan hand was like a shackle on his hip and he wanted to twist away or run, but his pride would not let him.   
  
“Aww,” the convict sneered, laughing horribly, “surely a doll like you’s got someone to keep ‘im warm.” Javert kept his face carefully blank. He was disgusted in himself, was it so obvious, was he so wanting-desperate. Javert resisted the urge to cough and spit on the ground; he did not raise his hand to his face despite the growing itch and the cling of dirt. He could  _ feel it on his skin  _ and it made him sick.   
  
25673 tightened his grip on Javert’s hip, and then ran his other hand down his own thigh. Javert would not pull away; Javert would not strike him; Javert would not show any weakness- Javert yelped when the convict pinched his thigh- and then his face instantly hardened again into a cold sneer.

 

“You sweating,” 25673 laughed, “that a ‘no’ then?” a wink. He hadn’t caught onto the growing danger, the fangs spreading the wolf’s into a mockery of any animal. Javert became a beast.   
  
Javert turned to face him, coming slightly closer to the groping hand and the grip grew even harder. Javert  _ was _ sweating, the idea of anyone knowing this secret thing about him unbearable, his eyes were lowered but he stood straight and proud. He had a hand on his cudgel, hooked onto his belt situated on his other hip, and the convict did not care. Javert smiled.   
  
“Get o’er here!” The convict hissed and yanked Javert toward the cell. The hand tightened further on his waist and Javert had no hesitation when he raised the cudgel and brought it down hard on the convict’s wrist, breaking through both tendon and bone in a single strike.

  
-

 

Convict 25673 was in the infirmary for a few hours and then returned to his cell. The convict would not work for a week at least, but Javert knew that with the meagre supply of food allotted, it would not be sufficient time to recover. He considered it a suitable punishment.   
  
The incident did nothing to spur the other convicts off however, if anything it made them more aggressive towards Javert. They taunted him, called him weak, and a whore’s son -it was true, he didn’t have to remind himself-. Javert didn’t mind; his secret was safe.   
  
His days were filled with dirt and despair, but his nights had potential. Wasted potential, ending in either further restlessness or a burning self hatred, revived by the dreams he had no means to prevent. If only he had a bit of laudanum- No.   
He heard lewd noises in the night that could be silenced if Javert desired to throw light upon himself and his secrecy. It wasn’t true secrecy, it was his job to keep watch, but it felt that way when Javert found himself watching too closely and slipping in dreams. If he dreamed of dancing, purple frocks, and dark eyelashes, it was no one’s concern but his own.   
  


-

 

Javert did not make a lot as a guard; he did not make enough. Yet, he still took careful steps through the town, looking into each shop, studying each corset, as though a burglar was hidden in their depths.    
Of course, one was not, and if anyone suggested such a thing Javert would laugh and smirk; he was never one to lie, a careful silence could keep his secrets. The secret that Javert would rather die than share, yet he studied each dress to carefully, too closely, and looked on with longing. He didn’t stop walking.

 

As much as he wished to, he never dared to enter any of the shops. He only dreamed of trying on one of the glittering garments. He saw women in the streets once a week, his day off; they were shrouded in so much beauty, their little girls given gifts of silk and damask.

Javert’s greatest wants we're tied to the busts of and clinging to the hips of these women, so entitled, undeserving. Javert huffed, it was he who was undeserving. 

 

_ You are disgusting!  _ He hissed at the mirror, and clenched his jaw, and furrowed his eyebrows.  _ You are a man! Ridiculous fucking fag!  _ He imagined that it was someone else degrading him and telling him those things, and somehow that made him feel better, at least a little. If someone else could see the wrongs Javert made, simply by existing, than at least his judgement wasn’t rotten. Javert’s judgement was the one thing that he could trust.   
  


No one heard these late night laments, even though he shared quarters with a few other guards in the prison, and this he could be grateful for. 

 

No one knew his secret but the convicts, and convicts have no voice, no power, no rights. Javert would not allow himself to be dragged down by something so pitiful; he grew up, and moved up, and moved on. 

  
  


  
  
  



End file.
